


A-Roundin' Third and Headed for Home

by iceberry



Series: Shot Heard 'Round the World [2]
Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Baseball, Internalized Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-30
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2018-08-18 16:23:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8168357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iceberry/pseuds/iceberry
Summary: The first time Abe sees Robert Townsend, it’s top of the third inning at a Columbia home game his junior year, and Abe is at bat. (A pitcher, a shortstop, and a strike zone.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> baseball terminology explained in end notes. the internalized homophobia is pretty mild, but still present so.

The first time Abe sees Robert Townsend, it’s top of the third inning at a Columbia home game his junior year, and Abe is at bat. He’s _heard_ of Townsend before, seen the blog posts about how this pitcher was keeping this tiny liberal arts school afloat their first year in Division I. He ignores it. There’s hundreds, hell, _thousands_ , of pitchers playing college ball. Abraham Woodhull doesn’t have time to care about all of them.

Abe squares up at the plate just like he would every other at-bat: elbows up, bat back, ready. Townsend looks at him directly, and Woodhull meets his gaze. _Just another pitcher_ , he thinks, readies himself for the pitch. Something about how the pitcher is looking at him is bugging him. He doesn’t change his stance or move or anything, but he’s thrown off a little. There’s sixty feet between them, but it’s such an intense look, Abe feels like he’s been personally challenged. By the time he’s dragged his eyes away and focused them on the ball, he’s angry. _Who does this guy think he is?_ He’s annoyed, he’s fired up, and he feels _ready_. Jokes on this pitcher, trying to intimidate him – now he just feels more prepared than he’s ever been.

In reality, Townsend doesn’t look intimidating. He looks _bored_ , like throwing out the ball is more effort than this at-bat is worth. But he throws the ball, expression still looking as though it’s the most useless action he’s done all day. It’s already in the catcher’s mitt before Abe’s bat crosses the plate.

Woodhull steps back a bit, the cut through air leaving him unsteady. He knows his mouth is hanging open a bit, but – _holy shit_. The sign in left field displays the pitch velocity: 93 miles per hour.

The next two pitches are just the same, fastballs in the inside corner that Abe can’t even get closed to. When the ump calls the shortstop out, Townsend looks at him as if he’s a bit curious, a bit bored at Abe’s inability to make contact with the ball. Abe swears he sees him smirk a bit too, and his blood _boils._

There’s a reliever in the next time Abe goes up bat in the 7th, but he _swears_ he sees Townsend watching him from the dugout.

(Columbia loses 5-0.)

()

The two teams meet again that season once, a game that goes into extra innings but once again eventually goes in the loss column for Columbia. He notices Robert’s not there. It doesn’t bug him – there’s a game to play after all, _And having a pitcher with a slower fastball can only help us._ Abraham gets a hit, but it’s not as satisfying as it would have been if he’d been able to turn to the mound from first and flash a smile at Townsend. Get under his skin, just like he got under Abe’s.

He stays out at the batting cages till late that night, despite having played longer than usual. He’s restless tonight, no matter how many balls he hits into the wire walls of the cage, energy stays coiled in his chest. It’s some kind of anxiety boiling under his skin, but 100 swings later it’s still there and he still hasn’t been able to pinpoint a reason. He calls it a night, but doesn’t feel all that much better.

()

Senior year rolls around somehow, and before he’s really had time to adjust to the reality of it being his last year of college, it’s baseball season again. So far this year Abraham has passed all his pre-law classes (which his dad is pleased about), been chosen as one of the team captains for the team (which his dad doesn’t know about), and been invited to join a summer league (which his dad is furious about, because it means he won’t be doing a law internship).

Caleb was drafted to the pros last year, as a junior. He’s in the minors, and Ben will be soon (he’s going to finish Yale, first, the golden boy he is), and Anna’s almost certainly going to be joining them as well – there’s at least five teams that want her for her knuckleball. It’s like their entire little league team is going professional all at once, and even though it’s already improbable enough, Columbia’s shortstop feels left behind. He wants it _so_ badly.

Getting to the big leagues has never been certain or clear for Abraham. He’s _good_ , but joining the MLB was never his main goal – being a lawyer was. Suddenly his dad is calling him twice a week about law school applications and Abraham is realizing that he doesn’t give a _shit_ about being a lawyer.

“So how long is your dad giving you?” Caleb asks in between bites of his pizza – his minor league team is just outside of the city for a series, and he’s dragged Abe away from the Lions’ practice for dinner.

“A year from graduation.”                

Caleb raises his eyebrows, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “That’s not long.”

“If I don’t get into the minors by then I’ll stall,” Abe says. “I’ll only apply to law schools I don’t have a shot of getting into, or I’ll fuck up the applications or something.”

Caleb doesn’t look convinced, but bites down into his pizza thoughtfully.

“I have a plan,” Abe says, trying to convince Caleb as much as himself. “There’s a few scouts that have been at the Ivy League games. The summer league I’m joining has had plenty of players drafted. I’m pretty good at what I do, you know.” Caleb doesn’t look entirely convinced. He has a right to be skeptical, Abe would be the first to admit (though not out loud) that it’s not the best plan, but it’s what Abe has for now and it’s what he’s going with.

He hopes it works.

()

It works.

He’s drafted by the Continentals and thrown into their farm system that July, Double-A. It’s not a promise of the majors by any stretch, and a team that’s finished three straight seasons (their _only_ three seasons, at that) winning less than half their games isn’t Abe’s first choice, but it’s a start. His father can complain all he wants. He’ll take it.

Out of forty rounds in the draft, Abe is picked 24th.  Ben tells him it’s “respectable.” The Continentals number one draft pick (number 2 overall, given how bad their record last season was) is a pitcher from a small school in upstate New York with a nasty 95 miles per hour fastball named Robert Townsend.

()

When Abe’s called up to Triple-A a few weeks and a solid .340 average later, it’s jarring (but nothing he can’t handle, of course). Just as he’d gotten used to Concord and his teammates there, he’s thrown into a new locker room, full of players he doesn’t know.

Except for one.

“Hey,” Abe says casually, turning away from struggling with his locker combination just in time to see Robert Townsend walk by. It’s the morning of his first workout with the team, and he sees no reason to put this off. “Remember me?”

The pitcher does stop, almost to Abe’s surprise – the image of Townsend he’s been carrying with him for the year since that first game is of someone who would _definitely_ be willing to ignore questions like that. He looks at Abe carefully.

“Maybe. Who did you play for?”

“Columbia. I play shortstop.”

Something like recognition crosses Robert’s face, but no sign of being happy or otherwise displaying emotions about it. “I do remember you,” he says flatly. Abe opens his mouth to respond, but the pitcher continues, now with what seems to sound like self-satisfaction in his voice, and a small, private smile on his lips. “I’ve never seen someone look so angry about being struck out.”

Abraham stares at him blankly for a second, trying to understand what just happened. _Was that a joke? Am I supposed to laugh?_ He lets out an awkward, half-hearted chuckle, but Robert is already halfway across the room, beginning to button up his uniform top.

The rest of the day, he keeps an eye on Robert at practice, but doesn’t work with him at all. It’s expected – Townsend is a pitcher, he’s a field player. But when he takes a break to get a drink, he watches the pitcher throw in between sips of water. He was good in college, but unsurprisingly, he’s even better now. Just from what Abe can see (he’s in the dugout, but Robert’s throwing with a catcher in the outfield) he’d guess that the fastball is 95, maybe 97 miles per hour.

He isn’t in the lineup that night, and Robert isn’t starting. Some kid named Phillip Roe is starting tonight, with a shaky curveball and an 80 mile per hour fastball that just seems pathetic after what he’s seen Robert doing.

He thinks he catches Robert looking at him a few times, but isn’t sure. But he’s stuck all night on the bench, which gives him time to think. (He does watch the game, but the pitching is a little painful to see, so he ignores it). The first thing he thinks about, that’s been tugging at the back of his mind all day, is that he isn’t angry or annoyed at Townsend. Perhaps he should be, after this morning, and Abe half-expected it of himself. But instead he finds his interest piqued by Townsend, and more pleased that he remembers him than he has any right to be, given that the pitcher’s memory was of his anger.

In the 24 hours Abe has spent in AAA, he’s realized a few things: Townsend is one of the best pitchers he has ever seen, but he’s _strange_. He’s weirdly stoic, and he seems to draw away from the rest of the team, even the other pitchers and the catchers he works with. He sits in the bullpen with the relievers when he’s not starting instead of the dugout like the other starters. He’s distant, and keeps to himself, and Abraham Woodhull is more curious than he’s ever been about anyone or anything before.

Distantly, Abe hears the announcer call out “Good bye, home run!” and sees their manager (a strange man named Sackett) clapping. He claps halfheartedly without really thinking about what he’s doing. His attention isn’t quite on the diamond, but instead, across the outfield in the bullpen.

What’s suddenly become very clear to him is that he’s going to figure out the enigma that is Robert Townsend, no matter what.

()

The first game Abe attended as a member of the Groton Raiders was also the last game of a homestand, and the very next day he’s packing his bags for Saratoga Springs. It’s luckily not an awful trip – a 4-hour drive. He’s been through worse.

There’s two spots open by the time Abe gets on the bus. One is the window seat next to Nathan, a first baseman called up from High-A a few days before Abe was. The lack of a taker for that spot makes sense – he’s been there too short a time to really have any friends on the team yet, which the shortstop understands. The second empty seat is _far_ more interesting, as it’s next to Townsend. He’s been here long enough to have made friends with _someone_ , but the seat is empty, and Robert is giving off the definite aura of someone who does _not_ want anyone sitting next to him.

It’s perfect. Abraham takes the seat.

“Mornin’,” he says, in the most chipper voice he can muster up. It is 7 A.M., after all, and no amount of effort can completely hide the fact that he’s exhausted, but he’ll sure as hell try. “Late night yesterday, huh?”

Robert glances at him sideways, but makes no effort to otherwise acknowledge Abraham’s presence.

“I’ve never been a morning person myself,” Abe continues, pretending to be oblivious to Robert’s pointed disregard. “I’m hoping I’ll be awake enough for the game tonight, though. Think Sackett will put me in?”

“I think,” Robert (or Rob, as Abe has taken to calling him in his head) says slowly, “that if you want to be well rested enough for tonight’s game, then maybe reserving your energy instead of wasting it all talking would be beneficial for both of us.”

Abe _really_ wants to push him. But fine, he’ll leave this one be for now. (He does want to sleep on the ride before tonight, which would be difficult while talking.)

There’s really no time to approach Rob the rest of the day. They get to Saratoga, check into the hotel, and immediately head to the stadium for practice. Sackett posts the lineup an hour or so before the game, and Woodhull’s name isn’t on it. The twinge of disappointment he feels is eased when he sees the pitcher. Robert is starting.

The dugout isn’t that far from the mound, but Abe wishes he was closer, just to see Townsend’s pitching better. There’s something almost mesmerizing about it. The Groton pitcher isn’t tall, unusual for a starter. But the way he throws and the way he carries himself make him seem much larger, especially compared to his cold behavior off-field. When he’s watching Robert pitch, the shortstop doesn’t think about how he was rude to Abe, or how much he hated him that first time Townsend pitched to him. He finds it a little hard to think of anything besides how _incredible_ he is when pitching like this. He’s laser-focused, none of the bored college student he saw back then. There’s a grace to his releases that belies just how fucking _unbelievable_ that fastball is. And each _thwack_ of a ball into the catcher’s mitt makes him more and more dead-set on figuring out Townsend.

Unfortunately, it’s put on hold for the time being – there’s just no time, and the pitchers and fielders do most of their practicing separately. One morning during warm-ups he ends up tossing the ball back and forth with him, but there’s too much space between them for Abe to try and carry on an actual conversation.

The bus ride back to Groton is the next time he gets a chance to talk to Robert. Once again, no one makes an effort to sit near him. Except, of course, for Abe.

“I didn’t get a chance to tell you the other day,” Abe says, settling down and dropping his bag next to him in the aisle. “You pitched a great game.”

Once again, Rob’s only acknowledgement of Abe’s presence is with a small glance over to his side before turning to look back out the window. A moment passes, and then – “Thanks.” It’s quiet, and certainly not _warm_ , but it’s a response. He’s going to run with it.

“I will say though, I definitely like watching you more when I’m not on the receiving end of that fastball.” Almost imperceptibly, the corners of his teammate’s mouth turn up a bit. But it’s gone in a flash, and Abe doesn’t get another response that bus ride. But that one word and the small smile are the first hints he’s gotten that a real person exists beneath that exterior (not that he doubted it, but it’s proof.)

()

There’s an off day when they get back, a brief respite before the next series begins. Some players are using it to go out together, a few are visiting girlfriends or family. Although he’s not going to admit it, it’s getting under Abe’s skin a little that he’s been in Triple-A for 5 days, and still hasn’t gotten any playtime, let alone _started_.  So he spends his day in the park, in the batting cages. They’re _much_ nicer than the ones he had access to in Double-A, and he might as well make use of them.

Going to the batting cages has always been therapeutic for Abe. As he adjusts his batter’s glove, he thinks back to when he was a teenager, and would run two miles to the rec fields to use the cages there after fights with his dad. Thomas would do his best to smooth things over with their dad while he was gone, and more often than not he’d come back and things would be dropped for the time being.

There’s a sudden ache in his chest that Abe can’t quite put his finger on – melancholy? mourning? Either way, he doesn’t feel like dealing with it. He reaches down, picks up a ball, tosses it up, and hits it as hard as he physically can.

About 50 balls later he feels like someone is watching him, but when he turns around the halls of the complex are empty. Abraham shrugs it off and hits 50 more, then goes back to the hotel. Tomorrow will be his day.

()

Abe starts the next day. He goes 0-4 and makes an error on a play that he’s made a thousand times before, and they lose 9-3 against a pitcher with a 7.48 ERA.

It’s one of the worst days of his life. It takes all his self-restraint not to throw his glove to the ground in frustration by the top of the fifth. There’s no reason it should be going wrong. But everything is, and in the locker room that night every mistake he made is on reply in his mind, overlaid with his father’s voice telling him that him being here is a mistake, that he’s making a mistake by not going to law school, that _Thomas_ would never do something so unreasonable so why does Abe think he can just throw his life away for a dream that’ll probably never get him anywhere?

He heads outside when the rest of the team goes to leave, but can’t bring himself to go back to the hotel.

Somehow he finds himself back inside the stadium, he’s not sure how. It’s a little blurry around the edges, and though his steps through the hall are steady enough to keep him upright, inside he feels like he’s stumbling and can’t quite get a grasp on how to catch himself.

He finds himself in the dugout, and the rush of cool air on his face as he steps out is enough to ground him again, if only a little. His father’s voice quiets to an irritating whisper in the back of his mind, and he’s distracted enough by the transition to the outside that his own mental admonitions of himself quiet down a bit. Abe looks around at the empty seats near the dugout. The stadium is strange when uninhabited, and the grandstand lights are off. but the sky is clear tonight.

“What are you doing down there?” someone calls, and Abe freezes for a second, caught in the headlights. It isn’t like he’s not _allowed_ to be here, though, and he relaxes further when he realizes who it is.

“I could ask you the same question,” Abe responds, walking up the steps onto the field. Robert scowls at him from the mound, a bucket of balls by his feet. There’s a few balls scattered around where Abe is standing, just by first base, and he’s not sure how they got there. They make a trail that his eyes follow through the dim light to home plate, where his mouth falls open a bit.

There’s a strange structure over the plate – a wooden frame with string stretched across it to create a rectangle about 2 feet tall and a little bit more than a foot wide. If the idea wasn’t so absurd, Abe would almost say it looked like…

“Is that a strike zone?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Robert says, glancing over. Abe’s realizing that Townsend must have been out here practicing on his own, and that he’s interrupted him.

But instead of leaving, Abe sits down in the grass near first. And waits.

Townsend regards him wearily for a moment, but appears to decide that he’s not worth wasting practice over. He grabs a ball from the bucket next to him, adjusts his grip, and throws the ball.

It’s a fastball, and it scrapes the upper right corner of the string rectangle. Robert looks over at Abe again and seems to be sizing him up for a moment. But wordlessly, he reaches down and grabs another ball, and throws. This time it’s a curveball, and it goes straight through the middle of the rectangle. _Easy to hit_ , Abe thinks, and the frown on the pitcher’s face makes Abe think that Robert’s having the same thought.

“You haven’t used that pitch in games yet,” Abe says, and Rob turns toward him in the middle of leaning down to pick up another ball.

“How many games have you even watched me start?” he asks flatly. “I’ve used it once or twice. It’s not ready.” The shortstop raises his eyebrows – even if that particular pitch may haven’t been perfect, the movement was still better than a lot of curveballs he’s hit before. Robert throws another ball, which still goes near the middle, but dips down further this time. The pitcher still scowls.

“Do you want me to bat?” Abraham asks. He’s not sure where the idea comes from, but the words are out of his mouth before he has a chance to regret it.

Robert appraises him wearily for a second, then nods. “I think there’s some bats left in the dugout.”

The wooden frame moved away, Abe lines up to bat. He’s been around Townsend fairly constantly for about a week now, on a mission to get through to him just as long. It’s so strange – he feels like he learns more watching him pitch, just being around him than when he tries to get him to talk. The astronomic unlikeliness of the situation they’re in right now settles in. There’s a thousand players drafted each year, to 30 separate clubs. Somehow he’s ended up playing with the one player that Abe vividly remembers playing against, and somehow said player seems to be beginning to tolerate him.

Woodhull squares up like he’s been doing his entire life: elbows up, bat back, ready. Townsend looks him in the eye. For once, he doesn’t look at Abe like an annoyance, but instead with curiosity, and the shortstop feels like that’s a little victory. He smiles at the pitcher, more a teasing challenge than anything else.

Robert throws the ball, and it hits the wall behind Abraham before the bat crosses the plate. There’s no one else around to measure the speed, but he’d guess that it was at _least_ 95 miles per hour.

“That wasn’t a curveball!”

“Who said I was going to throw you a curveball?” Robert calls back, the small flash of interest Abe saw before gone.

“You definitely _implied_ it,” Abe says, resting his bat on his shoulder.

“No, you _assumed_ it.” The pitcher’s glare cuts across the 60 feet and Abe feels like he’s right next to him. “Do you want me to pitch to you?”

“I was offering to bat for _you_.” Rob waits for a response. “Fine. Throw the ball.”

The next two pitches are curveballs. Abe swings way high on the first one, gets weak contact on the second, and it rolls lazily by 2nd base.

Rob keeps throwing a mix. Abe doesn’t hit a single fastball, but he manages to get pretty far on some of the curveballs – at first. They’re rapidly improving, and he watches the pitcher make small adjustments each time. He clearly has a strong attention to detail.

After a while – Abe’s lost track of time – Robert picks up another ball from the bucket, looks at it, then puts it back.

“I’m done. Help me pick up the balls.”

Abe jogs out to the outfield to gather the few ones he managed to hit. In the back of his head he can still imagine what his father would have to say, about him being a failure, wasting his life. But it’s quiet now, and the change is far more drastic than he can remember it being any time he tried chasing the thoughts away in the batting cages.

When he’s done collecting the balls from the outfield, he turns back to the infield to throw them in the bucket on the mound. He halts, however, when he sees Robert looking at him from across the field – but the pitcher quickly looks away and resumes gathering the stray balls at home plate.

They finish cleaning up and leave in relative silence, besides a mumbled “Good night” from Abe. It suddenly feels a bit awkward the moment they’re off the field, but Abe’s worries feel far enough away after practicing with Rob that the awkwardness feels like a small price to pay for it.

()

Abe doesn’t start the next day, to no one’s surprise. The rest of the players on the team are nonchalant about the whole thing. He wasn’t expecting them to be cruel, but he certainly doesn’t expect everything to go on as usual. But it does, and practice happens without anything out of the ordinary happening.

He watches the game from the bench again, leaning over the dugout railing to get a better view. He can’t help but be a little bitter, but the Raiders win the game, 5-0, and Nathan hits a home run. Abe actually misses the hit – he finds himself staring out towards the bullpen without thinking about it, and he only realizes how strange it is when Sackett asks him if anything is wrong.

After the game he gets changed with the rest of the team, but hangs around. He has no clue if Robert will be back out there tonight, and if he is, no idea if the pitcher’s patience with Abe has grown thin. He decides to try anyways.

He hears the _thwack_ of balls against the backstop before he even steps outside. Quietly, he returns to his viewing spot from the earlier game, chin resting on crossed arms and leaning over the dugout railing. Rob doesn’t notice him at first, and continues methodically throwing the ball, leaning down to grab another from the bucket, throwing again. Once again Abe is struck by just how good Rob is, how impossible it is to take his eyes off of him. Somehow the pitcher’s movements are graceful and explosive at the same time – Abe doesn’t think he’s ever been as enthralled by anything else in his life. He’s seen more pitchers than he can count, but there’s something special about Robert. He wants to know what it is.

“You’re quieter than usual,” Robert says suddenly. “Why?”

The shortstop lifts his head up off of his arms. “Why do you want to know? Worried about me?”

“Fine, if you don’t want to talk about it.” He immediately resumes his practice, throwing a fastball that goes just outside of the string rectangle, but must be at least 96 miles per hour.

Abe considers for a moment whether he should tell Robert or not – the pitcher just dodged _his_ question as well, but he kind of wants Robert to know more about him, whether he wants to or not. “I was just surprised no one brought up my start during practice.”

Rob stops in the middle of winding up, looking over with an expression that can only be described as incredulous. “Awful self-centered of you,” he says.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Abe’s temper flares a bit despite himself.

“Do you legitimately think you’re the only player to have a bad debut?” Even if it’s pure exasperation, there’s still more emotion in Rob’s tone than Abe’s heard yet. “I knew you were myopic, but that’s pretty impressive.” He pauses for a second. “Go get a bat.”

Abe’s annoyed – Rob is definitely being unfair. But he decides to put his pride away for now and grabs a bat.

The rest of the night passes the way it had the night before. Rob sticks to fastballs and curveballs, but throws in a change-up, one Abe didn’t even know he could throw.

“You’re my test subject,” Robert says as way of explanation. The batter scowls at that, and tries to throw his frustration at the comment into the next swing, which does a magnificent job of cutting through air uselessly as the fastball hits the backstop. Just for good measure, he supposes, the ball bounces back and hits Abe in the ankle, leading to a stream of curses that Rob observes with a raised eyebrow and no further comment.

Once again, Rob simply decides when he’s done, and once again they pick up the balls and leave without really saying anything else.

Things settle in, and playing for Groton begins to make sense. After every home game Abe walks back to the dugout to find Robert on the mound, throwing at that strange wooden frame. He’ll hit for a while, they’ll part for the night, and it’ll start over the next day.

On road trips, Abe sits next to Rob every time, and the scowls about it are becoming less and less infrequent. They still don’t talk much, but _occasionally_ Rob will answer a question without seeming annoyed or irritable. And once in a while, the pitcher is the one to start the conversation. Abe treats each of those conversations like a win, and they’re almost as exciting as when the team wins.

Abe eventually starts again, and it isn’t a _total_ disaster, though he knows he’s not going to be called up anytime soon. Rob starts every fifth game, and it’s becoming clear that he’s going to be fast-tracked to the majors. He’s pitching seven innings regularly, and they’re seven _good_ innings. Mostly he’s been sticking to the fastball – but the first time he gets a strikeout with a curveball, he looks over to shortstop and nods at Abe.

“Where were you the second time I played your team in college?” Abe asks one night, depositing collected baseballs into the bucket on the mound.

Robert, walking over from first base, tilts his head questioningly. “What are you talking about?”

“The second time we played you guys, you weren’t there. You weren’t on the bench or in the bullpen either, I remember looking.”

Rob gives him a funny look for a second, like he’s trying to remember something, or figure something out about Abe. “Oh,” he says after a moment. “It was because of my father. Someone broke into his house, and the guy hit him over the head when he woke up and called the police.”

“Shit, really? I’m sorry.”

The pitcher shrugs, glances around the field to make sure they haven’t missed any balls, and picks up the bucket. “He’s fine. Go grab the practice zone,” he instructs, and Abe walks off to grab the wooden frame (“practice zone” isn’t a creative name, but it isn’t _wrong_ ) from home plate. He’s a little surprised at how cavalier Rob seems about the whole thing.

They walk together through the halls beneath the stadium towards the storage room. Out of nowhere, Rob continues. “He was frustrated with me for missing that game,” he says suddenly.

“Huh?”

“The second game against Columbia.” He stops at one of the several unmarked doors near the locker room and puts the bucket down to open the door. “It was just after they announced our school wouldn’t be playing against the Ivy League the next year, and my father wanted me to be there.” He laughs a bit, a weird melancholy huff of a laugh.

“Even though he was hurt?” Abe hits the light switch as he talks, and looks around to find a spot to place the wooden frame among precariously stored equipment. Bats are stacked on top of each other like some kind of baseball jenga, and there’s barely room to walk on the floor it’s so covered with loose baseballs.

“Put it over there,” Robert says, pointing to a small area in the back corner. “Yes, even though he was hurt.” Rob does sound exasperated retelling the story, but there’s a deep fondness beneath it. Abe feels a twinge of jealousy, but tries his best not to say anything. This is the most Robert has ever opened up to him, he’s not going to ruin it by complaining about his problems.

“Are you done in here?” Rob asks, no hint of sarcasm or impatience.

“Huh? Oh, yeah,” Abe says, and steps out of the room (more like a closet, really) while Rob holds the door open.

He looks at Abe for a moment, expectantly. “Well, goodnight,” he says finally, and leaves Abe standing outside the equipment closet to try and piece together what their exchange meant.

()

The next day is an off day for both Abe and for Ben, who’s been pitching with the Triple-A Bridgeport Sounders since graduation. It’s been awhile since they’ve had a chance to talk besides the occasional text message, their schedules just haven’t lined up well.

But the time apart hasn’t made anything weird – that’s just the way it is, Abe supposes, when you’ve known someone since you were five. He’s perched on his bed with skype open on his laptop, and a Queens Rangers-Red Coats game on his TV. The Rangers are up by 3. The Coats’ pitcher is some veteran who’s probably headed right back down to the minors after this game. But most of his attention is on his laptop.

“And how’s Caleb been? I keep meaning to text him, but you know…” Abe trails off, then laughs with an apologetic shrug. Ben gets it.

“He’s good. I don’t know if you saw, they briefly tried to play him in outfield since the Merchants already have a catcher,” Ben says, smiling a bit. “From what he told me, I got the impression he’s a bit short for all those pop flies.” Abe can’t help but laugh out loud at that, because he can imagine it perfectly. That’s why Caleb played catcher for their Little League team – some things never change.

“How do you get along with the guys on your team?” Ben asks, steering the conversation to Abe.

“Pretty well,” Abe says, trying to figure out how to start. He _wants_ to talk about Robert, but… “There’s this guy Nate I get along with, he was called up around the same time as me. He went to Yale. You know him?” He’s not sure _why_ he didn’t start with Rob.

Ben lights up suddenly. “Nathan Hale? He was on the team! He’s a great guy, we were pretty close. He left for the minors after Junior year, though, so I haven’t talked to him in a while.”

“Yeah, he’s great.” Abe hesitates for another moment, but bites the bullet. “There’s this other guy – remember that pitcher I complained about Junior year?”

“Vaguely,” Ben says. “You definitely whined about him to me a few times.”

“I didn’t _whine_ – whatever. Guess who’s on my team?”

Ben’s eyes widen, and he laughs. “Seriously? Your luck is _shit_ , Abe.”

Abe’s taken aback for a second, and he’s sure it shows on his face, before remembering that Ben’s only memory of this pitcher was Abe telling him empathetically that ‘This guy was such a _douche_ , Ben, it was unreal.’

“Nah, it’s not like that at all. We get along well. I’ve been practicing with him a lot,” Abe explains. “He’s weird, but definitely not an asshole. At least not to me.”

Ben gives him a questioning look. “Why have you been practicing with a pitcher a lot?” He cracks a smile. “You’re not switching to catcher on me, are you? I can’t deal with listening to _two_ of my friends complain about having to learn new hand signals.”

Abe shakes his head again. “No, we’ve been practicing after games. I wandered up to the field one day and he was there,” he says, trying not to hesitate even as he realizes how _weird_ that all sounds. “He’s _great_ , Ben – I mean, you’re a pitcher, you’d understand if you saw him. I’ve never seen _anyone_ throw the ball like him. His fastball is unreal.”

“Are you talking about _Robert Townsend_?” Ben asks, pausing over the name like it’s something he’s not sure he can say, like it’s too weird to be true.

“Yeah, Rob.” It seems so _weird_ to hear someone talk about Rob like that – seeing him and talking to him and their nightly practices have become so normal. Even though the effect of watching him pitch hasn’t been lost on Abe, _far_ from it, he’s more used to seeing it. It feels almost _comfortable_ to watch Rob pitch, and to know he’s on Abe’s team.

“I knew you were in the same system, but I never really put two and two together and realized you two were on the same team.” Ben leans back from his camera, mouths ‘Wow.’

“He’s pretty amazing.”

Ben’s looking at him strangely. “Are you guys close?”

“Yeah,” Abe says immediately, then pauses, thinks. He’s _easily_ closer to Rob than anyone else on the team, but it’s harder to judge that question in an objective sense. “I know him better than anyone else on the team,” he says with certainty (and a bit of pride).

Ben takes a deep breath, like he’s readying himself for something difficult. He speaks slowly, still looking a little confused with Abe. “Do you _like_ him?”

“I practice with him every day, so like, I’d _hope_ so –”

Ben sighs, a sigh that Abe recognizes as his ‘I can’t believe I have to explain this’ sigh, a mainstay as long as they’ve known each other. Carefully and slowly, he rephrases himself. “I mean, are you _into_ him.” Suddenly Abe’s torn between two not dissimilar emotions – one, the instinct to laugh at the way that Ben manages to sound so serious about _everything_ , and the instinct to laugh at the idea that he would be into Rob.

“Ben, are you serious?” He gives into the second impulse, and chuckles, trying to relieve the tension that’s appeared between them. “No way. I’m straight, you know that.”

Ben shrugs. “The only relationship I’ve ever seen you in was when you and Anna dated for what, 5 months? When you were 15?”

Abe opens his mouth to respond, then closes it, his ability to just laugh at the situation quickly going away. “So?” He doesn’t quite snap at Ben, but he’s getting there.

“So… nothing, I guess,” Ben says, subdued. He looks a little taken aback at how aggressively Abe responded to the suggestion. Abe’s not _mad_ at Ben, just a little frustrated. There’s nothing weird about him and Rob’s arrangement at all. They’re teammates. They look out for each other. “Sorry, I didn’t want you to take it the wrong way.”

“It’s fine,” Abe says. He’s still annoyed, but this is the first time he’s talked to his friend in weeks. He’s ready to just change the topic and move on. “Speaking of Anna,” he says, sliding their conversation to something much less uncomfortable. “She called the other day.”

Ben gives Abe one last look, but seems to concede, and tries his best to muster up a bit of enthusiasm. “Really? How’s she doing?”

()

They say goodbye just in time for the shortstop to catch the last out of the Rangers-Red Coats game. The final score is 12-2, Rangers. The only exciting thing that happened was that George Fredrick, the manager of the Red Coats, got thrown out for arguing with the umpire.

Ben’s question about his relationship with Rob still bugs Woodhull, if only because he has no idea what prompted Ben to ask it. Tallmadge was probably just reading too deep into things, which he’s done since he was a kid.

Abe’s sleep that night is restless, and his dreams shuffle through scenes: Ben as a kid, the de facto team captain, worrying they’re going to lose; his father’s voice, words unrecognizable but tone undoubtedly disappointed; Thomas celebrating when he committed to Columbia; Robert. They’re static, moments he’s watching but not participating in replayed over and over – except for with Rob.

In his dream, he’s at bat, but the stadium is empty except for him and the pitcher. Rob throws a fastball, and he hits the ball into left field, but Abe doesn’t run. He just stands there, 60 feet away from the pitcher’s mound, and waits.

“Well?” Rob asks. “What are you going to do now?”

Abe wakes up just as he opens his mouth to respond.

()

“That’s Woodhull to Hale for the third out! We head into the bottom of the 8th with the Raiders up, 5-2.”

Nate high fives Abe as they jog into the dugout to get ready to bat. “Nice play,” he says, putting his glove down and grabbing his batting helmet. “That guy was pissed though, I think he wanted the play challenged.”

Abe raises an eyebrow. “No way he was safe,” he replies, glancing through the railing to the other dugout just out of curiosity. “He’s gotta be delusional if he thinks he was safe on that.” The player in question shoots a dirty look of his own towards the Raider’s dugout, which Abe meets until he has to turn and get his helmet on. He’s tall and doesn’t blink as frequently as normal people do, and just kind of looks… weird, there’s no other word to describe it.

“He’s a fucking creep,” he mutters to Nate. He’s not sure why he lowers his voice – it’s not like the player (he thinks his name is Simcoe, but he’s not sure) can hear him across the diamond. _Paranoia getting the best of me_ , he thinks, but Abe keeps an eye on him the rest of the game.

“Did you see that weird outfielder today?” Abe asks during practice with Rob that night in between swings.

“The tall one?” Rob replies, and fires off a fastball that Abe fouls off into the stands. 

_That’ll be a pain to get_.“Yeah. The one who looked like he wanted to pick a fight with Nate in the 8 th inning,” Abe replies, and whiffs at a curveball.

“What about him?” the pitcher asks, halting for a beat to wait for a response, his curiosity getting the best of him.

Abe rests his bat on his shoulder, shrugs. “I don’t know,” he admits after a second of trying to come up with an excuse. “Just watch out for him tomorrow, I guess.”

Rob raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything. He throws another two fastballs that Abe misses, then follows with a _comically_ slow pitch. It can’t be more than 60 miles per hour, and it goes upwards in an arc so pronounced it’s nearly goofy. Abe follows it, gets ready – and misses.

“What the hell was that?”

“An Eephus pitch,” Rob says, with more than a bit of smugness behind his voice.

“It’s bullshit, that’s what it is,” Abe huffs from the plate. “I hope you’re not planning on using that in a game.”

“No. Most players can hit a 58 mile per hour ball, you’re just a special exception,” Rob counters, winding up.

Abe tries to be annoyed about that, tries to get irritated at the insult. He smiles despite himself, and it spreads when he smashes the next pitch into the center field bleachers. Rob’s turned around to follow the ball’s path, but the shortstop _swears_ he sees a smile on his face as well.

The next day, Robert starts, and Abe’s in the lineup, albeit at third instead of shortstop. _Whatever_ , he thinks. _It’s playing time._

It’s a Sunday afternoon game, a nice change from the night games. There’s a large crowd in the stands, more families with kids than Abe’s seen at a Groton game yet. The first few innings progress relatively fast. Both the pitchers are good, and Abe strikes out his first at-bat. Much more enjoyable is watching Robert pitch – 3 innings in he’s still throwing a no-hitter. First and second innings he retires out the side, so it isn’t until the top of the third he faces the strange outfielder.

Simcoe steps up to the plate with a runner on first and an out on the board, and looks more like he’s planning on taking a stroll in the park than playing a baseball game.

Abe’s watching Rob carefully, and the pitcher doesn’t react any differently, even if he does recognize the player as the one from yesterday. He winds up and throws the pitch, a fastball that goes a little high and is called as a ball. Simcoe looks almost _happy_ about the ball.

Rob frowns a bit, but winds up to throw. The next few seconds feel like they’re in slow motion to Abe. The runner on first bolts before Rob lets go of the ball, and both him and Abe see the movement out of their peripheral vision at the same time. Abe realizes before the ball is halfway to plate that Rob’s release is off, it’s going to be far inside. Simcoe twists towards the plate, almost imperceptibly. The ball hits Simcoe in the back, and all hell breaks loose.

The ump’s hands fly up, signaling that Simcoe can walk to first, and Abe’s jaw drops. He yanks his glove off and throws it in the dirt, starts walking to first before he thinks it through.

“What the hell was that?” he yells. It’s directed towards Simcoe, who’s handing off his bat to his teammate at home plate. The ump turns and looks his way too.

“Sorry, what on earth do you mean?” Simcoe’s voice is so sickeningly polite there’s no way it _isn’t_ mocking.

Abe didn’t realize _just_ how tall Simcoe was until he was standing right next to him. “You stepped in the way of the ball,” he says, pointing towards the pitcher’s mound.

“I did not,” Simcoe says, and Abe has never heard anything less sincere in his entire life. It makes him want to puke. “I’m in a great deal of pain right now, and I don’t appreciate these accusations.”

Abe turns to the umpire. “You must have seen it! He turned towards the pitch. It was on the inside but he could’ve dodged it easily.” He sees Nate behind Simcoe, moving in closer. The benches are beginning to clear, but no one is running in yet.

The umpire shakes his head, frowning behind the mask. “I didn’t see that.”

“Perhaps,” Simcoe interjects, “Your pitcher needs to work on his control of the ball, and _you_ on your control of emotions.”

Abe punches him.

()

He _knows_ he shouldn’t have, he _knows_ he was being baited. Of course he gets thrown out, but sitting in the clubhouse alone nursing his bruises (someone on Simcoe’s team got him pretty hard in the side before he was pulled from the fray) he’s feeling like it was absolutely worth it. 

He thinks Simcoe left the game due to injuries (good), but he can’t be sure, because the one TV in the locker room is so grainy he can’t make out the faces very well. Rob’s thrown another solid 4 innings, but Sackett just took him out. Phillip Roe is the replacement pitcher – starting didn’t work out well for him, and it doesn’t look like relieving is going to be any better.

“What was that all about?” Robert says, walking in the doorway. He doesn’t look happy, and he throws Abe’s glove across the room at his feet. “You left that in the dirt when you decided to make a scene.”

Abe doesn’t say anything. What is he supposed to say? It’s a lot easier to justify his bad decisions to himself than to Rob, who somehow seems to be able to see past his excuses.

“He was being an asshole,” he says after a moment; it’s a weak excuse but also the only one he has.

“So? He _wanted_ you to get mad,” the pitcher says, and he’s infuriatingly right. “I don’t know what he said to you, but you might have broken his nose, and you’re definitely going to be suspended.”

Abe stares at the floor, the indistinct voice of the announcer from the TV suddenly grating to listen to. “He talked shit about you,” he mumbles after a second. Simcoe’s jab about him needing to control his emotions was ill-timed, because if Abe’s being honest, he’d already made up his mind the second Simcoe said shit about Robert’s pitching.

“I don’t need you to defend me,” Robert says. He walks over to the bench Abe is sitting on, bends down to get a better view of his bruise. “Can I see?”

Gingerly Abe lifts the ice pack out of the way, and Robert cringes.

“Ouch,” he says, and sits down next to Abe.

“Yeah.”

They sit together for a moment without talking, the buzz of the television calling the last few plays of the game the only distraction.

“You’re an idiot,” Rob says out of the blue. Abe turns to look at him, and their faces are close enough that it’s verging on awkward, but he’s too surprised to move. “If you lose your shit like that, other teams are going to exploit it, and it’s hard to win a game without a half-decent shortstop.”

“Huh?”

“If you want to _really_ help me, don’t start shit to ‘defend me,’ just stay in the goddamn game.” Robert manages to sound surprisingly thoughtful, given what he’s actually saying.

Maybe it’s the way their faces are far too close together but Rob doesn’t seem to mind at all; maybe it’s the fact that his anger at Simcoe finally makes sense; maybe it’s just because for once someone can see through his shit and Abe both hates it and loves it in equal measure, but the words hit him like a ball to the head.

 _Ben was right_.

He’s still staring at Rob when he feels his stomach lurch and the back of his neck breaks out into a cold sweat. He’s in love with Robert Townsend. _This is what being in love must feel like_ , he thinks.

It feels _awful_ , and he stands up, the locker room suddenly much too small and far too claustrophobic for him.

“I have to go,” he mumbles, and clutches his ice pack to his side. “Tell Sackett he can call me first thing tomorrow morning to yell at me.” He can’t look the pitcher in the eyes as he leaves.

He gets back to his hotel room and still feels like he’s going to vomit.

It all makes _way_ too much sense for Abe’s comfort. Things he was able to write off as being a little weird, but not unreasonable – his interest in wanting to get to know Rob, how much he loves watching him pitch, why Simcoe insulting Rob is what pushed him over the edge – suddenly fit together.

Abe lays on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. No wonder he’s always found watching Rob so mesmerizing – he’s _attracted_ to him, that’s what attraction feels like, no _shit_. So that’s why he wants to spend every second he can with Rob, and even the times when the pitcher calls him out on his bullshit stop him in his tracks, because he’s never met anyone who can get through to him like that. For a moment the nausea goes away, and his heart feels tight, and he feels unbelievably happy. _I’m in love_ , he thinks, and then reality hits him.

 _Fuck_ , he thinks. _Fuck._

He sits up in bed, clutching his side. _I’m going to fuck it all up_ is his next thought. Abe doesn’t want to lose their friendship – even if Abe’s built it on false pretenses (without realizing it). Of course there’s no way it’s requited. _I can’t tell him_ , he decides. _I can’t_. There’s no way he could tell Robert without making things awkward between them – there’s no way he can tell _anyone_ on the team that he likes guys (or just one guy specifically), either. They play together every day, they’re in a locker room together every day, and Abe isn’t going to be the one to ruin that; not for Robert and not for the whole team.

His father comes to mind, as he always does when Abe least wants to think about him. This time the thought of him makes him smile sardonically to himself. He’s a disappointment in every other way to his father, so it was only inevitable that he disappoints his dad by being into guys, too. 

Abe barely sleeps that night, and it’s actually a relief to see the next morning that he’s been suspended for five games. He’ll miss the road trip, but he needs space right now anyways. Abe would honestly like nothing more than sitting next to Robert for five hours, but the thought is also completely nauseating. It’s a lot easier to ignore that you’re helplessly in love with someone when you don’t realize that you are.

He spends the next few days mostly working out on his own, trying to distract himself. He keeps up with the Raider’s games (they win one, lose four). He goes to the batting cages, but doesn’t have the heart to hit for more than 30 minutes or so.

The day the team gets back to Groton, Sackett calls Abe to tell him that he should come, but he won’t be playing, so he makes his way to the stadium before batting practice starts.

Nate’s the first one to greet him when he gets into the locker room, slapping him on the back as he walks in. “Woodhull! How’d suspension treat you?”

“Oh, it was great,” Abe says sardonically. “Five whole days to think about how much I _don’t_ regret hitting that guy.” Nate laughs, and punches him in the shoulder again. There’s a few other chuckles around the room, and Abe smiles a bit.

Buttoning up his uniform, he can’t resist looking over at Rob’s locker. The pitcher’s bag is already here, meaning he’s probably already out warming up with the other pitchers. Abe breathes a sigh of relief – hopefully Rob will go to the bullpen before the field players are done with batting practice, and he won’t have to see him. He’s not sure he can handle it right now.

He thinks he’s in the clear when he watches the game start from the dugout. Rob is presumably in the bullpen by now, and Abe’s able to relax through the first few pitches. Moments after the first batter strikes out, someone sits down next to Abe silently. He doesn’t even need to look to know who it is.

“Was 5 days long enough for you to cool your head off?” Rob asks, a hint of sarcasm there. There might be a little bit of hurt too – Abe would just brush it off as him reading too deep into the situation, but he _did_ leave abruptly the other night.

“As long as a certain creepy-ass outfielder isn’t playing tonight,” Abe responds. He doesn’t want to look at Rob, but he turns to look at him anyways because he’s sure purposefully not looking at someone during a conversation is much more likely to arouse suspicions. “Why are you sitting down here?” he asks, harsher than he means.

“Am I not allowed to sit down here?”

“You’re allowed,” Abe says, and trails off. He feels like he should say something else, but nothing is coming to mind. _I’m ruining it_ , he thinks as Robert frowns and looks back at the game. And – he hates himself for thinking this – it’s better to ruin it like this than by telling Rob the truth.

The rest of the game goes by with relatively little talk between them. Robert seems prickly the rest of the times Abe tries to start conversation, and the less Rob responds, the less Abe feels like trying. He feels like _shit_ , honestly, and the fact that Sackett puts him in after the game goes into extra innings doesn’t make it any better. As much as he wishes he could read Rob as well as the pitcher can read him, he _can’t_. He seems insulted – maybe hurt? Abe can’t tell.

After the game, like usual, the shortstop goes and changes in the locker room with the rest of the team. For the first time in weeks, however, he leaves with the rest of them too. He wants to go up to the field so badly – he knows Robert’s going to be there – and at the very least feels bad for not at least telling him that he was skipping their practice. Robert probably wouldn’t pry, but the chance of anything slipping out is too much.

Abraham has always been a great liar, but with Rob, he’s more worried about telling the truth.

()

The next day, Abe heads to the locker room earlier than usual. He’s the only one in the room as he starts getting changed, and he has his cleats on before anyone else walks in the room.

His back is to the door, and he hears footsteps, but no greeting. Abe looks over to see Robert opening his locker. He’s not quite _aggressively_ ignoring Abe, but it’s close. He’s looking straight ahead at his locker as he gets his things out.

Briefly, Abe opens his mouth to say something – to apologize for snapping at him yesterday, for missing their practice without telling him. But he closes it and shuts his locker, because he’s not sure he can come up with any lie that Robert would fall for.

That night, Robert sits in the bullpen instead of the dugout and Abe leaves right away again after the game. The next day, Rob pulls him aside as he’s leaving the locker room for batting practice.

“Are you done coming to the field after games?” Robert’s tone is cool and level.

“Look, I’m really sorry-”

“I don’t want your excuses,” the pitcher says, raising his voice in a rare slip of emotion. He restrains himself and continues. “I don’t want to get a bat out for you every night if no one’s going to use it.”

“Look, I just – I haven’t felt like I’ve needed the extra practice lately.” It’s utter _bullshit_ , and Rob can tell.

“Alright,” is all the pitcher says, and walks away.

The next day Robert pitches a complete game, 9 innings from start to finish. He holds the opposing team at one run, and gets 12 strikeouts. It’s by far the best performance any pitcher on their team has given this year, and as much as Abe’s been avoiding Rob he still can’t take his eyes off of him when he pitches. Even layered with the uncomfortable reality, watching Rob pitch a particularly good curveball takes that away for a moment, and Abe’s breath hitches in his throat. _I’m in love with him_ , he thinks, and the panic he’d originally felt has melted away. Of course, it’s been replaced with the equally painful feeling of knowing that you can never have something, no matter how badly you want it.

The next day, Rob is called up to the majors. By the time Abe’s awake, the press conference is over; the pitcher’s locker is empty by the time he gets to the stadium.

It’s not like the rest of the team doesn’t _notice_ Rob’s absence, they do. But even as he and Abe grew closer, he still stayed distant from the rest of the team. There’s a few jokes about how many games they’re going to lose without him, but for everyone else, everything is as normal as can be.

The season goes on.

Abe plays more. He plays fine, by most standards. Gets a hit once a game or so, gets his first home run. The fielding errors become less and less frequent as he gets used to Triple-A level players. He works out every morning to try and make up for the post-game practices he’s no longer doing.

He’s _miserable_. Everything feels weird without Rob around. It seems like everything reminds Abe of him – the field at night, when the bleacher lights are off, the train wreck of a storage closet that he passes every day. He sits with Nate during the long bus rides, but he’s used to Robert’s brief answers and comfortable quiet, and quickly becomes irritable.

The first two weeks he doesn’t make any attempt to get in touch with him, and Rob doesn’t make any attempt to talk to him, which he guesses he deserves. The night before Rob’s major league start, he sends him a quick text wishing him good luck, which doesn’t get a response.

Their games start at the same time, so Abe doesn’t get to watch it (though he’s not sure he would anyways). The Groton Raiders, behind the unsteady arm of Phillip Roe, manage to squeak by with a 3-2 win. The Connecticut Continentals, with a promising rookie making his Major League debut, lose 9-1. Robert gave up 8 of the runs, and only lasted 5 innings. Abe does a double take when he sees the scores and the statistics, because it’s so entirely unlike Robert he isn’t convinced a different pitcher didn’t start in his place. It’s _almost_ as bad as Abe’s Triple-A debut, but unlike Abe, Robert is sent back down.

Phillip Roe is sent up to the majors to replace him, which would be funny if the whole situation wasn’t such a _mess_. The shortstop is honestly thrilled that Rob’s back. Although he was upset on Rob’s behalf when he saw the results of the game, his heart still skips a beat when he sees the pitcher’s bag in his locker later that day.

“Are you gonna go talk to him?” Nate asks as they warm up, throwing the ball back and forth across the diamond.

“Why?” Abe asks carefully.  

“You guys are friends, aren’t you?” Nate holds the ball, gives Abe a look. “You were pretty much the only person he talked to before he went up to the majors.”

“Yeah, I guess I will,” Abe says, looks across to where Rob is warming up. “Later.”

“Are you avoiding him?” Nate asks, releasing the ball above his head, forcing Abe to jump up to catch it. “I don’t know if you guys fought or something, but… you’re on a team together, you can’t avoid him forever.” The first baseman catches Abe’s return throw with a frown, tosses it up and down in his hand a few times. “Just think about it, okay?” He asks, and flips the ball Abe’s way, before turning towards the dugout, where Sackett is waving the field players over.

Abe turns back around to glance at Robert before joining the rest of the players. Robert’s looking back at him from across the field, but he quickly turns his attention back towards warming up.

()

They win in 12 innings, an excruciatingly long game. But the mood in the locker room is more jubilant than it’s been in weeks, even if it is only because most of the players are too tired to show any restraint. Robert’s bag and uniform are sitting in his locker when Abe looks, but he’s not anywhere to be seen in the room.

He stops at the equipment closet and grabs a bat, the first one he can find, before heading down the halls to the field. He hears the loud _thwack_ of balls against the backstop before he sees the field, and trying to act as everything is as normal as possible, Abe takes up his position at the dugout railing, watching Rob pitch.

If the bad start has rattled the pitcher’s nerves, he’s certainly not showing it. He’s throwing the balls as hard as he ever has, and every single one of them is going through the string rectangle he has set up.

“Are you going to hit?” Rob calls. He doesn’t sound angry, or bitter. Just impatient, like he’s ready to get on with practice, and Abe is holding him up.

“Yeah,” Abe replies, and swings under the railing and makes his way to home plate. Carefully, he removes the wooden frame, and moves it out of harm’s way. He taps the bat on the plate, and raises it. “Learn any new pitches in the majors?” he asks jokingly, trying to put himself at ease. It’s been a little over two weeks since he realized he was in love with Rob Townsend, and almost as long since he last talked to him. If he can’t have that, he’s decided, at least he’s going to try and fix what’s left of their friendship.

Rob smiles a bit, and throws a splitter right down the middle that Abe doesn’t have a _chance_ of hitting.

“Nice,” Abe calls, and raises his bat for the next pitch. It’s a fastball that he gets some weak contact on, and it rolls slowly toward second base as Rob winds up for the next pitch. Again, he squares up like he would at every other at bat: elbows up, bat back, ready. Rob looks at him, and Abe thinks he sees what might be a smile playing on the corner of the pitcher’s lips. He vaguely remembers that the first time they met, he tried to think of him as “just another pitcher,” an idea that seems absolutely absurd to him now. Rob is funny, he’s smart, he’s the best pitcher Abe has ever seen –

“Wait,” he yells seconds before Rob throws the ball. “Just – just wait.” Abe drops the bat at home and pauses for a second, thinking. He could just pick up the bat and move on; but he turns towards home and begins closing the 60-foot distance between home plate and the mound.

“What?” Rob lets the ball fall to the ground as Abe approaches.

“I can’t do this anymore,” Abe says, feeling out of breath.

“Do what?” Rob looks alarmed, a little incredulous.

Abe takes a deep breath. “I-I, fuck. I think I’m in love with you, and I’m sorry if that like, ruins things or makes playing together awkward, but I can’t not tell you because I’m fucking miserable when you’re not around, and I -”

“Shut up,” Rob says, forcefully, but not harsh. He’s looking at Abe with a strange mix of exasperation and confusion, and even a bit of hopefulness that makes the shortstop’s stomach do backflips.

“Huh?” Abe says, dumbly.

Rob reaches up and rests his hand on Abe’s cheek, brushes his thumb across his lip. Abe’s frozen, he can’t will himself to do much more than stare. “Shut up and save your energy for practice, stop talking,” he says, but there’s more fondness in his voice than Abe could ever have imagined hearing from him a month ago.

Abe blinks once more, absorbing the situation. Then he leans in, and kisses the pitcher, who smiles against his mouth.

 “It would be beneficial for both of us, huh,” Abe mumbles, thinking of the first time he sat next to Robert on the bus as he pulls back to look at him. There’s hundreds, _thousands_ , of pitchers playing baseball professionally. _And I found the best one_ , Abe thinks to himself before pulling away and grinning at Robert as he walks backwards towards home plate.

Without saying anything, he picks up his bat and squares up. Rob looks at him for a second, rolls his eyes fondly, and picks up a ball from the bucket next to him.

The next pitch is a curveball that dips below Abe’s knees, and he’s never been so happy to miss a pitch in his life.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm back!! it feels so good to finally have this finished, because i've been super writers blocked (writing blocked?) for months and i finally feel up to writing again.  
> comments on accuracy: i know a fair amount about baseball and i researched minor leagues a bunch but i have only a vague idea of how theyre run day-to-day.  
> baseball terminology (refer to "and it's one, two, three strikes" as well):  
> farm system - minor league affiliates where players train w the goal of eventually playing for the affiliated major league club  
> draft pick explanation - teams w bad records get picks earlier  
> bullpen - where pitchers warm up before/during the game. location depends on stadium but typically its near somewhere in the outfield  
> homestand - series played at a teams home stadium  
> 0-4 - zero hits for four at-bats  
> "retires the side" - gets the first three players who go up to bat in each inning out
> 
> unbeta'd so lemme know if you spot any grammar mistakes. this was also largely written bc im trying to get a grasp on abe's character so i'd love to hear how i did on that! all thoughts/feedback are loved + appreciated as usual. only a few games left in the real world mlb this season but i have a few more things planned for this au ahead ;)


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